“You cut the studio to-day,” said Elliott, suddenly turning on Clifford who avoided his eyes.
“To commune with nature?” observed Rowden.
“What’s her name this time?” asked Elliott, and Rowden answered promptly; “Name, Yvette; nationality, Breton———”
“Wrong,” replied Clifford blandly, “its Rue Barrée.”
The subject changed instantly, and Selby listened in surprise to names which were new to him, and eulogies on the latest Prix de Rome winner. He was delighted to hear opinions boldly expressed and points honestly debated, although the vehicle was mostly slang, both English and French. He longed for the time when he too should be plunged into the strife for fame.
The bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour, and the Palace of the Luxembourg answered chime on chime. With a glance at the sun, dipping low in the golden dust behind the Palais Bourbon, they rose, and turning to the east, crossed the Boulevard St. Germain and sauntered toward the École de Medecine. At the corner a girl passed them, walking hurriedly. Clifford smirked, Elliott and Rowden were agitated, but they all bowed, and, without raising her eyes, she returned their salute. But Selby, who had lagged behind, fascinated by some gay shop window, looked up to meet two of the bluest eyes he had ever seen. The eyes were dropped in an instant, and the young fellow hastened to overtake the others.
“By Jove,” he said, “do you fellows know I have just seen the prettiest girl———” An ex-
